Bullets Have No Antidote
by Ashabagawa
Summary: The Fischer Job has not gone unnoticed. Something is coming.
1. Sleep is for the Idle

**A/N – This fanfic is completely independent of my other **_**Inception**_** fanfic, **_**Chasing Mr X**_** and is definitely not a sequel. I don't think my brain would cope with trying to negotiate all of those crazy levels again, as much as I enjoyed it at the time. Here's the latest thing to fall out of my brain. I hope you like it – Ellen**

**Disclaimer: I do not own **_**Inception**_**, but I do own a pair of **_**Shaun the Sheep**_** slippers that my dog has chewed the ears off.**

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><p><span>Los Angeles, California, USA. <span>

If fear had a smell, Walter Platt's office on the 64th floor of Aragon Construction would have stunk of it. The high-backed leather office chair behind the desk, the framed photograph of a sailing boat on the Northeast wall and the plush carpeted floor would have all expelled the same telltale stench of anxiety and fright.

While fear itself does not have a smell, sweat most certainly does and, as he felt the underarms of his crisp white shirt dampen as another wave of nausea washed over him, Dominic Cobb wished he'd though to bring some deodorant with him. He was pretty sure he hadn't begun to smell and, as he made his way over to the chair in front of the desk, he did a kind of nervous jig under the air-conditioning vent, before sitting down. He felt better - the problem was not yet critical.

The secretary in the waiting room outside had let him in without even asking to see any identification – something that seemed completely insane to Cobb. She'd simply informed him that Mr Platt's meeting was overrunning slightly and he would be with him soon before offering him a glass of mineral water. After smiling politely and accepting the water, Cobb had found himself ushered into the office at the end of the corridor.

He tapped his feet against the leg of his chair nervously, the ice jingling in his glass.

It was a long time since he'd been in an office. When working on jobs, warehouses had always been more convenient as they had enough space for everything – Arthur's research, Eames' rehearsals, Ariadne's models and Yusuf's experiments. Space had always been a necessity. Now he supposed he'd only ever need enough space for a chair, a desk and a few files.

He'd appreciated the fact that normal life would take some getting used to. What he hadn't realised was how _hard_ it would be. How hard it was to not keep checking his totem every five minutes, how hard it was to not have Arthur next to him, giving him the stink eye whenever he made a mistake or gave too much away. Though Arthur's meticulous planning had sometimes got on his nerves, he'd lived with it for the last five years and now it was gone, along with his colleague, he had to admit the fact that he actually missed it.

Arthur was one of those people that grew on you. At first his precision, his seriousness and his irritating ability to be right all of the time had bugged him and they'd spent most of their time in silence, simply doing the things they'd needed to do. But then one day, during a job, a projection had almost shot Cobb, but Arthur took the bullet for him. Sure, he'd just woken up, but Cobb knew that, in that moment, something had happened and he could no longer simply think of him as just a colleague.

He'd started to pay more attention to the mysterious Point Man. Over the last five years, he'd discovered that, what he'd first dismissed as no sense of humour at all was simply just a very dry one and, when his partner's lip tugged slightly to the left he'd found something amusing. He also realised that the care Arthur showed for his work also extended to other things. People, even. He realised that, although it was hard to work your way onto the list of 'People Arthur Would Take a Bullet For', once you were on it, you were on it for life. Cobb wasn't sure what he'd done to earn himself that position but he was glad he had. Arthur had developed into a very good friend and, although he felt he didn't deserve such loyalty – especially after he'd lied to him during the Fischer job – he appreciated it and one day hoped to earn it.

He wondered if he'd ever see him again. Arthur had mentioned going to New York for a while, to lie low. Cobb knew he owned an apartment there but, from what he'd gathered, he didn't have any family. He wondered what could possibly have drawn him there, despite the fact it was the Big Apple. Now he thought about it, there wasn't really much he knew about Arthur's private life and he felt sad. He would have liked to probe a little deeper, declared a victory at bringing private Arthur out of his shell before retreating. But that would have to be someone else's job now. He wondered who.

He tapped his feet again, desperate for something other than brooding to keep him occupied. After a few moments, he moved over to the floor-to-ceiling window. L.A. seemed to sweat in the midday sun. The cars below looked like matchboxes, with wheels, their noise drowned out by the loud humming of the air conditioning. They seemed as if part of a different world.

"Not a bad view, eh?"

Cobb spun round, startled, to find a tall man standing in the doorway.

He was middle-aged, perhaps only a few years older than Cobb himself. His hair, once strawberry blonde, was now riddled with grey hair and his skin was very pale – seeming to portray a lifetime of always being on the side of the window with the heavy air conditioning.

"Mr Platt," Cobb said, crossing the floor quickly to shake his hand. He never remembered being this nervous. Perhaps at some point during the Fischer Job during one of the many moment he had faced imminent death he may have felt this same, nauseating fear in his gut. Maybe.

"You must be Mr Cobb," Platt replied, taking Cobb's hand and shaking it enthusiastically. "I've heard a lot about you from Miles."

"Good things I hope."

"Of course." With a smile that seemed rehearsed, Platt moved behind the desk and gestured for Cobb to sit down.

Cobb obliged, sitting back down in the chair he'd vacated only moments earlier.

"So I hear you've been in the business a long time," Platt said conversationally, pouring himself a glass of water from the decanter on the desk.

"Yes – architecture has always been something I've been involved with," Cobb replied, desperately trying to appear relaxed.

"So Miles said," Platt said, taking a sip. "He mentioned your last placement was in Paris."

"Yes, it was. Among other places."

"How did you find the City of Lights?"

Cobb chuckled cheesily, without really knowing why. Probably the nerves.

"Very well. I've always loved Paris – my wife was from there."

"Yes…I heard she passed away. I'm very sorry." Platt had adopted an expression he obviously thought was 'sincere, yet refined, pity'. Cobb felt certain he'd seen George Clooney model the very same one.

"It happened a while ago now; I came back to L.A. to try to move on. My children need their Dad back."

"Of course," Platt smiled, his face moulding into a dazzling smile - yet another staged look – this one possibly borrowed from Pierce Brosnan during his Bond era. "Now, down to business, what do you feel we can offer you as a company? How do you feel you'd excel as Junior Administrator?"

"Well-" Cobb rubbed his sweaty palms on his trousers, slightly unnerved by the rapid change of subject. "I've always admired the company's work. As an experienced architect, I believe I can fully appreciate the depth of the company's success and can bring my own expertise from those experiences to the company. I have good references from Saito Enterprises – they were very pleased with what I did for them."

"Yes." Platt's brow furrowed slightly. "We found Mr Saito's reference particularly interesting." He opened the file on his desk and pulled out a document before placing it carefully on the polished wood. Every muscle in Cobb's body was screaming at him to crane his neck and read it but he ignored his impulses and continued to stare, unblinkingly, into Platt's grey eyes.

"Oh?"

"Yes, especially the part where he says you are 'a man with no regrets, unlikely to die alone' with, and I quote, 'a good understanding of tourists and their needs."

Cobb laughed nervously.

"Oh yeah – inside joke."

Platt's mouth displayed no sign of betraying any sort of amusement. Cobb decided to carry on regardless, despite the feeling he was now fighting the inevitable.

"But I'm sure you were satisfied with the rest of Mr Saito's reference?" It came out as more of a question than a clear, definitive sentence. Platt seemed to study him for a second, as if weighing up his options.

"Yes," he said, finally. "We were satisfied. More than satisfied, actually." He glanced down at the document again before putting it carefully back inside the file. "Mr Saito praised your handling of his venture and claimed there was no better man to do the job. Coupled with your glowing reputation, we're struggling to find a reason _not_ to hire you." He paused for a minute, tracing his lips with his forefinger gently. "If anything, you seem a little…_overqualified_."

The word seemed laden with double meaning and Cobb felt small beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

"Why do you want this job, Cobb?" Platt asked. "Someone of your skill would surely be more suited to a job in management?"

"The kids need me here," Cobb replied, trying to pretend like he wasn't dying inside. "I just want to be near to them, you know. Catch up on lost time…"

He knew his answer wasn't quite sufficient, but it seemed to appease Platt.

For now.

"Well I suppose I can't complain," Platt said, smiling as he leant back in his office chair. "We've managed to snap you up before any other company has."

"So I've got the job?"

"You have. Congratulations."

The vice that only a few seconds ago had hold of his heart seemed to relinquish its grip slightly, allowing him to breathe properly again.

"You'll start Monday – I'll have Martin clear you a desk. I'll introduce you to your team then."

"Thank you very much, Mr Platt. I look forward to it," Cobb said, standing and shaking his hand, realising a little too late that it was still very sweaty. Platt betrayed no signs of discomfort however and grasped Cobb's hand with a similar amount of enthusiasm

"Welcome to the company, Mr Cobb," he said, flashing a Morgan Freeman smile. "We're expecting great things from you."

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><p>That night, they ordered a Domino's Pizza – a luxury normally reserved for birthdays – in celebration of Cobb's new job. Miles kindly volunteered to pay, seemingly unable to stop grinning at the idea of having a son-in-law with a job that wasn't illegal. His wife, Annette, although usually so adverse to all things Cobb, seemed slightly less hostile than usual and, after witnessing the excitement of the children at the idea of having pizza for dinner, agreed that perhaps a small celebration was in order. Within four minutes of the cardboard box being opened, the house stunk of garlic and James' face was completely covered in tomato sauce. While Cobb took him to the kitchen to help wash it off, he contemplated his new situation.<p>

On Monday he'd have a boss, a paycheck, a lunch break. He'd have to get up for work at a set hour, drive the car down the same road nearly every day of the year, walk through the same doors. He was going to become a normal guy, with kids and a mortgage.

He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

He loved James and Philippa, even now as Cobb's attempts with the dishcloth seemed futile against the tomatoey mess that was James' face. He loved them more than anything.

But he also loved dreaming.

It almost hurt to imagine a life without it. A stubborn part of him scoffed at the idea of being 'normal'. He liked being special – knowing things the average Joe didn't. But he would have to overcome those feelings.

He wasn't that man anymore.

" …telling us about frogs today and how the mommy frog lays eggs called spawn and then the daddy comes and makes them into baby frogs and they hatch." James had been spouting pretty much the whole time although Cobb only caught the end of his monologue.

"Oh yeah?" he said, rinsing the dishcloth under the tap.

"Can we get frogs, daddy?"

"I don't think so, Jimmy."

"Why not?"

"Well… frogs live in ponds. We don't have a pond."

"Can we get a pond?"

"Erm…" This was suddenly getting a bit too serious for Cobb's liking. "Ask grandma." He'd leave the dream-crushing to Annette.

"Ok."

Taking his son's hand, he led him back to the dining room, where Phillipa, Miles and Annette were deep in conversation. He wasn't sure what they were talking about (probably horses: Phillipa's latest obsession) and he just let their words wash over him. Phillipa was growing more and more passionate, flicking her hair and hoisting herself up in her seat with her dainty little elbows. Miles disguised a chuckle behind his hand, not wanting his granddaughter to take offense at his amusement, and Annette's head was nodding over her glass of brandy – obviously a little worse for wear.

This was it, Cobb thought as he started at them all. This was the reason he had given up dreaming. If he hadn't, he wouldn't be here, watching them and he _needed_ to be here watching them. He loved them all so much, even Annette, and he knew that if he had to abandon them again he would lose them forever. And forever was a long time.

He put the kids to bed a little later than usual, as he'd allowed them to watch a film with him. It was about a dinosaur trying to find his way home and involved a lot singing – he'd fallen asleep halfway through and had been rudely awoken by an elbow to the ribcage by James. For a moment, he'd swum in the disorientated sea of near-consciousness, unsure of whether the elbow was Eames, administering a finely planned kick, but then the face of his six-year old son had come into focus, he'd relaxed and he'd managed to stay awake for the rest of the film. It turned out the dinosaur did find his way home. How predictable.

Once he'd tucked them into bed and turned out the lights, he said goodbye to Miles and Annette. He called for a taxi as both of them were falling asleep and not in a suitable state to drive. When he finally climbed the stairs to bed, he found his own eyelids drooping. For the first time in a long while, he was genuinely exhausted. Being normal was tiring. As he hung his business suit up in the wardrobe, he felt something in the top pocket of his jacket. He reached inside and pulled out the small metal spinning top that had once been the sole thing tying him to reality. He stopped and stared at it for a moment, memories he'd tried hard to forget flowing through his mind. As if in a trance, he moved over to the bedside table, still clutching the totem. He rested it on the polished wood, about to spin it…

…and froze.

If this was a dream, it was one he would rather never wake up from. He wanted to stay here, with _this_ James and _this _Phillipa – the ones he knew – even if they were figments of his imagination.

He didn't want to know.

Shaking his head, he opened the drawer of his bedside cabinet and shut it firmly, before sitting down on the bed and rubbing his tired eyes with his fingertips. He needed to sleep – the usual way.

After a minute he began to laugh.

He might have kids, car insurance and a mortgage, but one thing was for sure – Dominic Cobb would never be normal.

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><p><strong>AN - Not much action in this chapter I'm afraid, but I promise the next chapter is jam-packed. Thanks for reading, reviews are great - Ellen**


	2. Fire is Our Friend

**A/N - Thanks for reviewing! This chapter has a lot more action and, coincidentally, a lot more Eames. I hope you like it. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inception, but I do own a ticket for the BBC Proms at the Royal Albert Hall from the time I spent ten minutes convinced I had lost my phone before finding it in glove compartment of my dad's car. **

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><p><span>Kensington, London, England<span>

Eames had never really liked old people. The idea of sitting round as your skin sagged, simply waiting for death, had never really appealed to him and as he strode up the steps of Sunnyside Retirement home, he felt sick to the stomach as he imagined the day when he might start to wear his slippers to dinner and think the Jeremy Kyle show constitutes as decent entertainment.

A middle-aged nurse answered the door.

"I'm Richard Dawkins." A lie. "I'm here to see Pete Burns." Another lie – although he had come to see someone, but his name was most definitely not Pete Burns. The nurse smiled.

"Of course. Come in, Mr Dawkins." She opened the door and he stepped inside, cringing as the scent of concentrated old-people reaches his nostrils. The smell reminded him of his grandmother – a woman who used to insist a water-heating system was frivolous and that her beef stroganoff was 'character-building'.

Nice lady.

The nurse took his coat and lead him down a bland, boring corridor and out onto a quaint patio, pleasantly warm in the autumn sun. It overlooked a small, shallow pond and a lush green lawn, where a huddle of elderly ladies were playing croquet. Eames noticed several of the gentlemen ogling their backsides as they took their shots and he briefly remembered the long-legged Fortula, who he had left asleep in his bed that morning.

This really was the pit of hell.

The patio was crowded, the elderly and their relatives sat at nearly every table.

"He seems to like it out here," the nurse said, weaving her way in between the tables, Eames following closely behind. "He says he likes the outdoors." She turned slightly, giving him a once-over from behind her glasses. "Are you a relative?"

"No," he said – there was no point lying here. "Just a friend."

He smiles absently.

"There he is." The nurse stopped and pointed towards a bench overlooking the pond. A small figure was sitting there, hunched over a book.

"I'll leave you two to talk," the nurse said, smiling again.

"Thanks."

Gingerly, he made his way over to the bench, sidestepping round the clusters of knitting old women, at least one of which pinched his bottom.

Gah.

Finally, he sat down.

The man next to him was crumpled and old, but had the face of a man who was not yet used to being so and is was under the impression he was handsome and intimidating. His name was Richard Elroy and he was quite possibly the most dangerous man Eames had, or ever would exchange pleasantries with. At least he was, until he retired from MI6 five years before.

"Well this place really is crawling with babes," Eames said, nodding towards the croquet lawn.

"Piss off," Elroy replied, setting his book down on the bench between them. _The Count of Monte Cristo_, Eames read. Dumas. Eames had always been more of a McNab man; he'd never been one for feathered caps and breeches.

"You took your time," Elroy said, turning his head to survey him through cold, calculating grey eyes.

"I was tailed. Had to lead them off." This was true; Eames had spent twenty-five minutes shaking off a black BMW. "This had better be important; I risked my neck coming out here."

"It is. Word travels fast."

"Meaning what? I didn't come all this way for you to be cryptic."

"Meaning everyone who is anyone knows what you did to Robert Fischer." Something in Eames' stomach dropped. "You're getting sloppy, Tony. Inception's hard to hide." Very few people knew that Eames' name was Anthony. Elroy was one of them. Eames wished he wouldn't bandy it about so much – it made him feel about seven years old.

"Why did you call me out here?" he asked, shrugging. "You wouldn't ask me to fly out just to congratulate me."

"Oh, I'm not congratulating you, Tony." There it was again. The patronising T-word. Elroy smiled smugly. "You'll know when I'm doing that. I'm warning you. Lots of important people want you dead. Not just you, but your merry band of extractors too. Fischer's decision to dissolve his father's empire affected a lot of people. And now those people are really pissed off. I'm just telling you to watch your back."

"What kind of 'people'?"

"American people."

"I see." The CIA. Great.

"Peter Browning has friends in high places, if you know what I mean."

"Why?" Eames asks calmly, even though his head his in turmoil. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Old time's sake. You were always a good kid, Tony. I'd hate to see your intestines used to line Peter Browning's new briefcase."

"I appreciate the sentiment," Eames replied, before turning to Elroy. "These people, the ones supposedly trying to kill me, there wouldn't be a table of them sitting forty-five degrees to my right, would there?" There were four of them, all in their thirties, all wearing grey suits. And they were looking straight at him.

"Possibly," Elroy replied smugly.

"How long do I have before they start shooting?"

"About thirty seconds."

"Right. Well it's been nice seeing you. Your geraniums are blooming," he said, standing. He could have sworn he saw a tight smile on Elroy's normally stern, thin lips but then he was walking quickly across the patio and he didn't have time to look back.

He sidestepped round old ladies, speed-walked down the corridor out to the front door, running out into the street beyond. The retirement home was set back from the main road, with a long, sweeping drive, shadowed by a line of trees, leading to it's entrance. Eames' Rolls Royce was parked neatly on the gravel nearby and, as he felt in his pocket for his keys, he heard footsteps on the concrete behind him.

"You there! Stop!" He froze, his hands raised above his head. He felt sad – this was a really crap place to die, especially with his car so _near_.

"Cuff him."

Eames heard footsteps on the gravel behind him, the jingling of handcuffs in someone's hand. He remained perfectly still, every muscle in his body tensed. They were barely a few centimetres away – he could hear the man breathing.

And that was when it happened.

Still clutching the key to his car in his left hand, held high above his head, Eames brought his arms crashing down, smashing into the side of the man's face. The blunt edge of the key, peeking through his fingers, made a terrible scraping sound as it ripped through the man's flesh and hit the solid bone of his teeth. Less that a second later, with the man's scream not yet formed in his throat, the handcuffs were on the floor, the gun from the man's holster was safely in Eames' hand and the man himself was lying unconscious and bloody on the gravel drive, leaking blood from the cut on his head.

It had all taken less than two seconds.

There were three of them now, all armed with handguns. Eames threw himself inside the car as bullets hammered into the metalwork and the bulletproof glass.

He was glad he had that fitted.

With his foot on the accelerator almost flat to the floor, Eames sped down the driveway. He glanced in his rear-view mirror to see the remaining three climb into a black BMW and follow him down the road.

He pulled out onto the main road without giving way, earning him a tirade of angry gestures and honking from the lorry driver behind him. His foot was still pressed flat to the floor and he quickly overtook the car in front of him, speeding through a set of red lights.

Kensington was spread out in front of him, the Royal Albert Hall on his left, the Albert Memorial on his right. It appeared as if from a photograph, the gold sparkling in the afternoon sun. Eames had no time for sightseeing, however and he sped past them, dodging a taxi as he did so.

He glanced back in the mirror to see the BMW pull out onto the road, also causing a ruckus. Quickly, he pulled off the main road and onto a quieter side street. The buildings here were mainly hotels or museums, all tall and white as if moulded out of icing sugar. Eames had grown up here, but that had been a long time ago. He tried to picture London as if on a street map, searching the deep recesses of his mind for any hint of memory. Yanking on the steering wheel, he rounded a corner, the tyres screeching on the tarmac.

He had to let the others know. If people were after him, they also be after them - probably already were. He didn't know where Arthur was, but Paris was probably a good place to start to look for Ariadne. Cobb could look after himself. Or maybe he couldn't – hadn't he retired? Confusion clouded Eames' mind as he checked his mirror again, spotting the BMW round the corner behind him.

He'd go to the Airport. He'd get out of England. He'd find Ariadne first.

What was Elroy saying? Americans - Americans were after him. By that he had to mean the CIA or the FBI. What would they want with him? It had to be Inception. But why?

As his agenda seemed to float before his eyes for a second, he pulled back out onto a junction, yet again ignoring the red light.

This time, however, he wasn't so lucky.

It almost seemed to happen in slow motion. A white van, in the lane intersecting with his, slammed straight into the side of the car, smashing the door and throwing Eames forward in his seat, his belt straining against the momentum. The car was spun round in the middle of the road, both windows and doors smashed. It collided with another car and Eames was thrown sideways into the passenger seat. Glass sprayed down on Eames' face and he brought up his hand to protect himself instinctively.

The car finally stopped spinning and Eames opened his eyes. The car was a wreck, but it might still drive. He revved it experimentally and pulled forward, leaving the van and car behind him. The streets were busy and people were shouting – some had already got out of their cars and had their phones out.

The BMW was creeping forward.

Ignoring the stinging in his neck and face, Eames scrabbled around in the glove box and pulled out his Browning Automatic handgun. It was a shame it had come to this.

They fired first. The car had crawled forward until it was parallel with Eames' crushed Rolls Royce. The first bullets fired through the open hole that had been the passenger side window. Still sprawled across the seats, Eames took cover, covering his head with his hands, bullets slamming into the leather seat where his head should have been. The whole car shook as the bullets slammed into the metal and leather. The noise was deafening, as people had now started to scream.

The bullets stopped for a moment. Reloading.

Taking a deep breath, Eames lifted himself up and took aim. He aimed for the tyres and, as he pulled the trigger and the bullets spat out of his gun, he heard the satisfying sound of air escaping.

They weren't going anywhere.

He threw himself back down on the seat just as another torrent of bullets tore into the Rolls Royce. Wrapping the seatbelt around his arms and securing it with his elbows, he protected himself from the worst of the jolting, inhaling the smell of the soft leather upholstery as his face was shoved into it.

Then something happened that nobody was expecting.

One of the bullets intended for Eames' Rolls Royce ended up embedded in the bonnet of the white van. Only, it didn't stay embedded for long.

The van was old and rusty, having suffered years of neglect and, when Eames had collided with it, the wires were shaken loose. When the bullet slammed into the bonnet, coupled with the oil now leaking from the engine, it caused a tiny spark, a spark only millimetres in length.

But that was all it needed.

In a ball of fire and heat, the van exploded. The noise was incredible and Eames buried his face in the leather again, shielding his head with his arms again.

Then, it stopped.

All seemed quiet for a moment. He could hear the flames crackling around the carcasses of the burnt-out vehicle. Slowly, he pulled himself up to look through the broken window and he realised why it was quiet.

The van wasn't the only thing that had exploded – it had taken the BMW right along with it. It was now lying, charred and burning, on its side. The men were dead, as was the van driver. The people that had previously lined the streets had all been blown off their feet in the blast and were now slowly picking themselves up from the pavement with blackened faces clothes.

They stared as the door of the Rolls Royce slowly opened and then fell off, falling to the floor with a crash and, like a kind of apparition, a man emerged from the smoke and fire.

His face was bleeding and he was limping. He was wearing a blue corduroy jacket and a pair of brow trousers, covered in grime and motor oil. He walked towards them and they parted to let him through - simply by surviving he had earned their respect. He seemed not to notice them however and, as he reached the pavement, he turned to survey the damage before him.

"Shit," he said. "I'll have to get a new car." With that, he turned back and continued to stride along the street.

The people didn't understand – it would take a lot more than three blokes in a car to kill Anthony Eames.

Especially if they were driving a bloody BMW.

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><p><strong>AN - Thanks for reading. As always, reviews are great. **


	3. Tomatoes

**A/N – Thanks again for all the reviews! They've really boosted my confidence with this story and I've now figured out what's going to happen. There's a lot more Arthur in this chapter, which I'm sure a lot of you will be relieved to hear! I hope you enjoy it. **

**I don't own **_**Inception**_**, but I do own a fuzzy bookmark in the shape of a poodle.**

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><p><span>New York City, USA<span>

Any compassion Arthur might have ever felt for Ravvi swiftly evaporated into cyberspace as he snutched up all the snot in his nostrils and wiped his drippy nose on his sleeve.

"That'll be two eighty-six," he said, his voice thick with cold. The contempt etched clearly into his face, Arthur dug in the pocket of his jacket for the change.

He placed it on the countertop without a word, ignoring Ravvi's outstretched hand – it was no doubt infected with at least three contagious diseases.

"Keep the change," Arthur said as he picked up the paper bag from the countertop and hastily exited the shop, the door chime tinkling cheerily behind him.

He didn't make a habit of venturing into Ravvi's corner shop, but today he'd run out of tinned tomatoes half way through making pasta sauce and Ravvi's was the closest tinned tomato supplier he could think of.

It was a warm day, the sun reflecting off the windows of the buildings towering on either side of the street. It was busy for late afternoon; people flooded the wide streets with their chatter and noise. Arthur found himself quickly absorbed into the crowd, swinging the paper bag of tomatoes absent-mindedly by his side.

He wasn't an expert at pasta-sauce making. The first few attempts had ended pretty badly, with a black, gooey tar-like substance stuck to the bottom of the pan. He'd been getting better however – the last time he'd actually managed to eat it, despite the overload of pepper threatening to make his eye water.

Cooking wasn't something he'd ever really had the chance to do. He'd always been on the go and had only ever had the chance to grab a sandwich or bagel. During his short break however, he was going to practise.

He'd decided to take a break off work – something that had never happened before. Ever. After five years of being completely career-focused, he'd found his mind drifting to other subjects, subjects he'd never even considered before. Like why the walls of his apartment were bare, with no photographs of friends or loved ones. Like why he probably only spent twenty days a year in the address that was supposed to be his home.

Like why he'd never cooked before.

It wasn't just the fact that Cobb had left behind everything Arthur held dear – dreaming, excitement, success – in order to chase something he had never had – a family. Something had changed him during the Fischer job. Not something, _someone_. Embarrassed to consider the idea even in the privacy of his own head, Arthur scratched his head awkwardly as he strode down the street, almost taking out an elderly woman with his elbow as he did so. Best not to dwell on her, he thought. She made him do stupid things.

Like kiss her in the middle of a hotel lobby. Yeah – he was stupid.

He turned up a side - street. His apartment building towered over him and he let himself in, scanning his key card through the lock. The door opened with a buzz and he stepped inside, immediately confronted by the air conditioning.

"Hey Lyle."

As usual the doorman was asleep, sprawled over his desk, his long, greasy hair covering his face. Arthur smiled to himself. The elevator was all the way up at the seventeenth floor – his own floor – and so he called it down to the ground level, sighing in frustration. He liked living so high up – the view from his dining room was amazing – but it was always a pain waiting for the elevator.

Suddenly, he froze.

It was quiet - too quiet. Lyle normally snored.

With a growing sense of dread brewing in his gut, Arthur turned slowly towards the desk. Lyle was still sprawled over it, showing no signs of waking. Carefully, Arthur made his way over, each footstep echoing on the marble floor of the lobby.

"Lyle?"

Tentatively, he prodded him on the shoulder. No response. He prodded him harder.

"Lyle?" Bracing himself, he rolled the doorman onto his back and then immediately wished he hadn't.

Lyle's eyes were open although he couldn't sense any presence behind them, probably due to the bullet lodged in the man's forehead. Blood was splattered on the polished wood where his head had fallen.

He had no time for remorse however, as at that very moment, the elevator arrived at the ground floor with a cheery 'ding'. Half-knowing what was going to happen the split-second before it did, Arthur threw himself behind the doorman's desk, still clutching the bag of tinned tomatoes, just as three burly men got out of the elevator.

One of them shouted out and, within a second, they had opened fire. Bullets smashed into the wood and thundered into the wall centimetres above Arthur's head. Splinters of wood flew everywhere and, covering his face with his hands, Arthur felt in his pocket for his gun. He found it less than a second later and loaded it, the noise hurting his ears.

A pause. They were coming to check if he was dead.

He could hear footsteps approaching on the marble. With lightning speed, he leaped up and shot the first one in the chest. The man stumbled back, just another opened fire again. Arthur threw himself into the now empty elevator, shutting the doors behind him. With a shaking hand, he pressed the button for floor seventeen and felt the ground jerk from underneath him.

They'd found him. Whoever they were, they had found him. Where could he go? Would they be after the rest of the team too? Ariadne? His stomach dropped. He had no other choice – he had to find her before _they_ did.

The elevator doors finally opened and Arthur sprinted out into the corridor. As he passed the stairwell, her heard the clatter of feet – they'd taken the stairs. He just hoped they weren't fast runners.

He burst into his apartment after a few seconds of struggling with the key. He slammed it behind him, locking it and sliding in the chain. It wouldn't delay them for long but, right now, he needed all the time he could get. He set the tomatoes down on the kitchen worktop – he wouldn't be needing them any more.

Barely catching his breath, he crashed into the bedroom, lifted the mattress up off the bed and pulled out a rucksack. Inside was four million dollars, another gun and five passports, all under different names but all bearing the same face – his.

Banging on the door.

He was seventeen floors high, with no way of getting down except the elevator or the stairwell.

They were now kicking the door down, with each thud came the brittle sound of splintering wood.

He ducked quickly into the en-suite bathroom, hiding behind the door, dropping the rucksack to the floor.

He heard the dull padding heard heavy feet on carpet and then the sound of feet on parquet flooring . The two remaining men had split up, one taking the bedroom, the other taking the dining room. He'd meet the bedroom one first.

Sure enough, the bathroom door slowly opened towards his face and, holding his breath, Arthur remained perfectly still. Through the crack of the hinge, Arthur could see the back of the man's neck.

_A little further. Just a little further. _

The man inched forward, scanning the room with the barrel of his gun. Suddenly, Arthur leapt forward, slamming the door into the man's face, crushing him between the door-fame and the door repeatedly with all of his strength. The man cried out, but managed to escape and punched Arthur solidly in the jaw. Arthur reeled for a second, before grabbing hold of the showerhead. It crashed down, hitting the man solidly in the jaw. Shocked, the man stumbled back, giving Arthur just enough time to beat him over the head with the butt of his gun. The man slumped to the tiled floor, unconscious.

Two down, one to go.

Arthur creeped back into the bedroom. The rucksack was still on the floor, next to the bed where he'd left it. He picked it up and slung it over his shoulder.

The third man was in the kitchen, tentatively making his way towards the bedroom door. The cries of his partner had alerted him to Arthur's location and now, as he crept over the tiled floor, he prepared himself for conflict.

Arthur tackled the man, leaping out from behind the door. They both fell to the floor, grabbing and punching each other wherever they could reach. Suddenly, without warning, the gun was knocked out of Arthur's hand and, as he fell back, he knocked the tinned tomatoes off the worktop. The other man didn't hesitate and punched him in the face repeatedly. Arthur could taste blood his mouth and, as his head snapped sideways with the latest of the blows, his eyes fell on the tin of tomatoes.

Ignoring the pain in the side of his face, he grasped the tin in his outstretched hand and, with the last of his strength, smashed it over the man's head. The tin must have been dented when it fell to the floor as, on impact, it split and tomatoes spilt out. The man slumped forward, unconscious with red fluid – tomatoes or blood Arthur didn't know – spilling out of a cut on his forehead.

Arthur pulled himself to his feet, wiping tomato juice off his suit. He found his cell phone in his pocket.

"Which service do you require?"

"Police, please." As he waited to be transferred, he picked up the rucksack and slung it over his shoulder, heading towards the door.

"This is the New York Police Department."

"Yes," he said. He was in the corridor now, making for the elevator "There's a load of unconscious men in my apartment and two dead guys downstairs." He arrived in the lobby, glancing quickly at the two bloody corpses.

"What's your address?"

"221B, Romero House, 72nd Street."

"Someone's on their way. Do you know who did this?"

"Yeah." He was out on the street, the heat suddenly hitting him as he was caught up in the wake of busy, bustling people. "It was me." He hung up, before taking the battery out of his cell and scattering the pieces along the pavement, making sure to crush them all between his brogues.

With the rucksack over his shoulder, he stepped out into the street and hailed taxi, clambering in to the cool car.

"The airport please," he said. "And if you get me there in under ten minutes, I'll give you twenty thousand dollars."

The cab driver didn't need to be told twice.

They sped away, into the hubbub of New York City, the satisfying wail of police cars growing more and more distant.

So much for pasta sauce.


End file.
